


Forever Ago

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:25:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9121420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: After missing his birthday for the last few years, Aramis is determined to get Porthos the perfect gift.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to tumblr for the prompt, "Set in season 3 with the boys back in Paris and Porthos birthday round the corner, Aramis tries to find an extra special present to make up for the 4 years he was not around."

The problem, of course, is that everything in Paris is exponentially more expensive since four years ago – food, goods, services, anything Aramis might have gifted Porthos in the past suddenly seems at least four times as expensive. There’s that and Aramis’ distinct lack of wealth (having given away most of his material goods when he joined the monastery). 

It’s proving to be a difficult task to find Porthos a birthday present. 

In the past, money wasn’t a problem. Porthos’ birthday consisted of getting drunk, sex, shooting a few melons off Aramis’ head, more sex in celebration, and then passing out. It made for a good night and Porthos never complained about the lack of an actual gift (“I’m your gift,” Aramis always joked, grinding his hips down against Porthos). Porthos, at the heart of it, was easy to make happy – sex, food, and drink all good choices when it came to making the birthday boy happy. 

Still, Aramis wants to make up for the years of birthdays he’s missed, the years of birthdays Porthos spent out on the front – waiting any day to die. 

Aramis’ first thought is a new pair of boots for Porthos, his old pair worn down at the heels – but the cobbler is too expensive now for a decent pair of boots suitable for Porthos. His second thought is to commission a new sword for Porthos, since his seems relatively old. He might have been able to afford it but when Aramis mentions it in passing to d’Artagnan, he’s quick to dismiss the idea. (“That sword was Treville’s.”) Aramis’ third idea is an invitation for two to one of Madame Angel’s parties – but those, too, are too expensive, and when Aramis mentions the parties in passing, Porthos only shrugs and says he doesn’t need to go crazy with that anymore. 

And melons are outlandishly expensive, thus ruining Aramis’ plan to buy five melons to make up for all the missed birthdays. He doubts it’d have gone over well with Porthos, anyway – it’s one thing to waste one melon that can be eaten, another thing entirely to waste several melons better given to the hungry. He knows what sort of expression Porthos would make. 

When Aramis tells Porthos they can spend his birthday shooting melons again, the words a hot whisper against Porthos’ ear as he rocks down to meet his body – both of them naked and sweaty in bed, Porthos’ hands clenched tight at his hips – Porthos stills beneath him and stares up at him, stricken and terrified. 

“Oh,” Aramis whispers, a lead weight stuck in his stomach at that look. “Or not…” 

He can’t place the expression but Porthos grunts and sits up a little, adjusting and shifting with Aramis in his lap. Aramis reaches out his hands and places them on his shoulders, frowning, squeezing gently and trying to comfort. His heart is pattering hard in his chest, and not because of the sex. 

“You don’t want to?” Aramis asks, his voice sounding far smaller than he’d meant to – terrified that even this was stolen from them now. They were making strides, taking these tentative steps. He thought the two of them were better now. He runs his fingers along the edge of one of Porthos’ scars over his collarbone, jagged and harsh in the light. Beautiful.

“It’s not that,” Porthos is quick to clarify. His smile is a little sad, lopsided. Aramis lifts his hand and brushes away his sweaty curls from his forehead, touching him all over as much as he can. Porthos adds, “It’s just… it’s been a while. And you never stop saying I’m a terrible shot.”

Aramis’ hand stills in Porthos’ hair. Porthos’ hands clench uneasily against Aramis’ hips, holding him, but self-conscious about it. Porthos glances down, breathing out a small, huffing breath. 

“Porthos,” Aramis says, trying to process that. “You wouldn’t hurt me.” 

“I’m out of practice,” Porthos answers. 

They sit still for a long moment. Then Aramis shifts his hands, cups his cheeks, and kisses him – more determined than ever to find him the perfect gift. 

 

-

 

The day of Porthos’ birthday comes and Aramis has no gift to give. He knows that Porthos will hardly blame him – but still the guilt churns in Aramis’ gut. He wears the looser clothes he knows Porthos favors, the clothes easier to strip out of—

And the night falls and the musketeer cadets bring out the drinks. This is the first true birthday party they’ll get to experience as would-be musketeers, but the ghosts of all the musketeers who used to celebrate with them linger, although the four of them don’t mention it.

Porthos grasps Aramis by the wrist and tugs him away. They find the shadows in the garrison that they know so well, that brings them back to years ago, over a decade ago now since the first time – and Aramis breathes out as the chill of the stone presses to his back and Porthos ducks his head, kissing him. Aramis kisses him back, breathes out and holds tight to the back of his neck, his fingers curled up into his hair, anchoring to him.

This is an easy moment to return to, to slip back into these roles – as if no time has passed at all. Porthos’ hands on him. Aramis’ hands sliding beneath Porthos’ clothes, sliding against his skin. The way they rut against each other, Porthos’ teeth at his neck. 

The smell of wine and sweat in the air, the taste of drink on Porthos’ breath, the swelling of their lips as they kiss and kiss and kiss more, never stopping—

Aramis coming with a soft cry of Porthos’ name, muffled against his neck, rocking hard against him. 

This is easy, this is natural – this is what he and Porthos have always done. 

And when they draw away from each other, adjusting their clothes as best they can, Aramis leans in and kisses him – lingering close, breathing out.

Porthos smiles and says, “So, how about the melon?” 

 

-

 

It takes a few tries before Aramis can properly balance it on his head, having to lean back against the support post for the extra help.

Porthos, of course, doesn’t miss. As if he ever could. 

 

-

 

“Here,” Aramis says later that night, after the party is starting to die down and Porthos is nursing a large bottle of wine all his own. He holds out a small pouch towards Porthos. 

Porthos sets down his bottle and takes the little pouch with a frown. He looks up at Aramis but Aramis only gestures for him to open it. Porthos undoes the drawstring and when the pouch slips open, falling away like a flower opening, Porthos holds a small pear in his hand. 

Porthos’ eyebrows shoot up and then he looks up at Aramis. “You’re not expecting me to shoot this off your head, are you?”

Aramis sucks in a sharp breath at the sudden onslaught of desire that suggestion brings, but he pushes past it and shakes his head, moving to sit beside Porthos.

“I wanted to get you a present. Something good, to make up for lost time,” Aramis answers. “But this is what I could afford. I know you like pears.” 

Porthos rolls the fruit in his palm. It isn’t ripe yet and will take a few days before it’ll taste the way a pear is meant to taste, and so Porthos tenderly wraps the cloth pouch back around it and pulls the draw strings.

Then he turns to Aramis, cups his chin, and kisses him. 

“I don’t need a gift,” Porthos tells him when they part. 

“You deserve everything and anything in the world, my friend,” Aramis answers and Porthos laughs – not dismissing, just embarrassed. 

Aramis lifts his hand, curls his fingers around Porthos’ wrist – to keep him holding his face like this. Porthos’ grip loosens but doesn’t go away, his thumb shifting to swipe over Aramis’ bottom lip. The touch is gentle, and easy – like old times. 

“Thanks for the pear,” Porthos tells him, his lips quirking up into a teasing smile. 

Aramis laughs. “It’s all I could afford. I’ll get you something better next year.” 

“Nah,” Porthos tells him, setting the pear down beside the wine. “This is good, thanks.” 

Aramis lurches forward and catches Porthos’ mouth with his – kissing him hard and desperate, needing him to understand, needing to settle the space between them, to make him happy, to make him feel wanted, and celebrated, and desired – that in all the time they were apart, Porthos’ birthday never passed without Aramis knowing the exact day, the exact moment, where they would have been together, if life had gone differently. Aramis woke up every day on Porthos’ birthday for the last four years praying he was still alive, and coveting any shred of news he could get from the war. He spent every birthday over the past four years hoping that, somewhere, Porthos could be happy, and safe, and celebrated. 

Porthos makes a soft sound against the kiss, must sense Aramis’ desperation – and he drops his arms to wrap around Aramis and drag him in closer. Aramis goes, scrambling for purchase, settling into Porthos’ lap and kissing him harder still, dragging his tongue into his mouth, clutching at his hair and tethering himself to him. 

With some shifting and adjusting, Aramis gets his hand around Porthos’ cock – squeezes him once as he plumps up in his hand, strokes him slowly as Porthos pants and groans into his mouth – kissing him sloppily. 

Soon, Aramis sinks out of his lap and down to his knees, shifts closer and swallows down around Porthos’ cock – stroking his tongue over him along with his hand. This, too, takes some adjustment and readjustment despite Aramis’ valiant attempts at practice over the last few months. But they both get there – Porthos rocking his hips up to Aramis’ eager, waiting mouth – Aramis bobbing down to meet him, suckling around him, sliding and curling his tongue, making appreciative noises from the back of his throat as he strokes himself in time to Porthos’ thrusts. 

There’s a quiet kind of peace, a simplicity, to doing this for Porthos – and he’s always loved doing this, loved the taste and the feeling, the stretch of his jaw, the slack of his jaw, the tension in his throat, the heavy weight of Porthos’ cock on his tongue, against his lips, the hollow of his cheek. 

Like this, it feels natural again – just dragging Porthos closer and closer to the edge and then pulling back just before he can come. The harsh bite of Porthos’ fingers in his hair, tugging hard because he knows and remembers that Aramis likes that. The hard thrust of his hips because Aramis likes it when he chokes sometimes, swallows down hard around the cock in his mouth, his nostrils flaring for want of breath. 

When Porthos does come, Aramis whines out and drinks it down – struggling to swallow around him, but manages it. And this, too, is what he needs and what he wants. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, steadies up onto his knees to tuck Porthos back into his pants – and can’t adjust more than that because Porthos is dragging him up and kissing him sloppily. 

“You’re all I need,” Porthos whispers against his mouth, once they part enough to breathe, still too close to one another. 

Aramis shivers, closes his eyes, and wants to believe that can be true – and vows to himself to spend the rest of his days, the many years of Porthos’ birthdays, to make up for their time apart.


End file.
